


No quiet nights for you, McCartney

by KeiserFranz



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, John can't drink, M/M, Paul is a saint imo, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 06:15:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26348464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KeiserFranz/pseuds/KeiserFranz
Summary: Paul had been looking for this evening since their album was finally done. Just him, Martha, a steaming cup of tea and a nice book.Well, either that, or absolutely wankered Lennon demanding cuddles.
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 8
Kudos: 64





	No quiet nights for you, McCartney

**Author's Note:**

> just something I found in my draft

_I won't dance, don't ask me. I won't dance, don't ask me. I won't dance, madame, with you._

Humming along to Sinatra's velvety voice, Paul did a small pirouette and collided with the near counter.

_You know what, you're lovely. You know what, you're so lovely. And, oh what you do to me_

Chuckling at his own idiotic coordination, he reduced the volume of the song, so it filled the empty flat as a pleasing background, and waited for the tea to steep.

Balancing the teapot in one hand, he gave Martha a good scratch between her ears before plonking down in the armchair.

He smacked his lips in delight after taking the first sip, wonderful warmth spreading over his body, then snuggled up under a blanket Ringo knit for him. (He didn't elaborate on small the bunch of octopuses with flowers decorating it, though.) 

Yes, this was going to be nice.

As much as Paul adored being socially active and, well, famous, last couple of weeks - scratch that - months had been a little too rough for everyone's taste. The recording heavily influenced by the expectations people (including themself) had. Not to mention the never-ending chain of social gatherings; events; promo interviews; photo editorials and other business-related fun. 

He couldn't remember when he happened to spend the entire night at his place, but today would be the day!

With phone notifications turned mute, curtains shut and a positively reviewed book awaiting on a table, the real world, with its frenzied fans and nosy journalists, could not crawl under his skin.

Deeply engrossed in the story, the reason behind the main character's weird obsession with her mother's typewriter YET to be explained, when a knock pulled him back, not giving a damn about Paul scheduled plans.

Or, rather, one proper, perfectly kind knock, followed by a string of irregular thumps that would wake any deader.

Grunting at the prospect of having to interact with a fellow human (hopefully just the elderly lady next door needing sugar and not a fan), he discarded the blanket and, legs tottering after sitting for so long, he went to answer the door.

Glancing at his watch, he noted it was almost 10 pm. No granny visit-time. 

Just then a particularly loud bang clanged, accompanied by at least 10 curses, stimulating Martha's guarding instinct like it was a cat prying around.

Hang on.

No, it can't-.

Paul breathed in deeply, bracing himself for the unknown and, a huffing dog in tow, opened the door.

"What the hec-."

"GOOD MORNING!"

Wincing at the noisiness, Paul fought the urge to roll the eyes at the person blocking the doorway. Of course it had be stinky Lennon of all people. The same Lennon who insisted on spending 1 or 2 days apart, so their relationship would not get rusty.

Pissed as a fiddler, composure resembling the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

"John. It's not a bloody morning. And-."

Whatever lay on Paul's heart had to wait, as Martha let out a huge squeak, eager to greet her second (third in Brian's opinion) favourite human. And drunk John Lennon always pushed down his general prejudices against anything not feline-related.

The vocal exchange almost caused him to smile, if it wasn't for John overlooking the slightly higher doorstep and tripping over. For a moment images of transporting his lover to the hospital, blood _everywhere,_ flashed through the genius mind of Paul McCartney. 

But, upon witnessing how his alleged soul mate merely resumed petting and scratching of the dog, Paul's hands flew to his hips, ready for the upcoming fury.

"JOhn!"

"Mhhmm, yes, princess, yer the bestest doggo of all the bestest doggos, YES! You are-"

"LENNON!"

"-such a flooofy, floofy dog, who's my girl???"

Catching the attention of John at the state like that had proved to be more difficult than expected. Paul silently prayed he wouldn't puke, too. Hamburg days were fond memories not worth reviving.

Suddenly a pair of arms encircled his legs indicating that a) he was listened to b) John had scrambled himself up to a kneeling position and was nuzzling Paul's kneecaps.

"Macca, ye own knees Venus could only wish for."

Paul was trying to resist the urge to ruffle John's hair, still salty about the discussion they had earlier. John's fear of commiting and people leaving had bolstered up significantly due the album-related stress, suggesting him his boyfriend would leave, too, and he should prepare himself by cutting down their time together.

"Didn't you have a party to attend? With Harry and Mike?" He signed, messing the unruly auburn tuft anyway.

"Did. Was having fun till I started to miss ya."

The words were muffled by Paul's slacks but he could sense the fragility of John's voice. Deciding to not poke him further, he placed both hands on the other man's shoulder, finally letting his lips to curl up in a smile.

"Water?"

A groan between "tired" and "already hungover" escaped John's lips, the only reply Paul got. 

Once back from the kitchen, carrying a glass and painkillers per request, Paul witnessed Martha's attempts to guide her owner's love to the sofa, her wet snout pushing as if to check he hadn't passed out.

He waited patiently for John to gulp it down, secretly watching if he didn't try to spit out the aspirin, before joining him on the couch.

John was sprawled over his lap in a jiffy. Wet lips attached to Paul's neck as if he hadn't look ripe for a deathbed a second ago.

It was a nice sensation, though, and Paul allowed himself to relax...till a very strong stench invaded his nostrils.

"Jesus christ, you smell like a pub on two legs."

John cackled then hiccupped, fingers toying with the hair on Paul's nape.

"You sound like such a dad sometimes."

Those exact fingers slid down to Paul's chest to draw random shapes there.

"Even sport a nice sweater vest, very dapper."

Paul's momentarily shut eyes opened quickly in a horrific prediction of what was about to come.

"John, I warn you-"

"Daddy."

He could feel his cheeks heaten up, how on earth was he supposed to get a plastered, horny Lennon to bed? And he had to do that, otherwise John would be grumpy. Despite claiming sleep was overrated, everybody knew when he didn't get enough snoozes.

Gathering John's hands which began to undo his shirt and were sneaking under to brush the bare skin he used his best stern voice.

"Ahahha, not now, Johnny, bedtime it is."

He was immune to the pleading gaze sent his way.

"Not even a kiss?"

"I'll give you plenty of kisses as soon as you brush your teeth and change into your pyjamas, yeah?"

John nodded, albeit still not satisfied, his frown relaxing a tad when Paul pecked his forehead as a compromise, then disappeared into the bathroom, one hand clutching Martha's back for support.

When he nestled himself on Paul's lap again, this time smelling of mint, freshly showered (earned him a proper kiss on the lips!) and clad in a baggy T-shirt and pyjama pants, he looked more like a tired kitten than a sloshed hoodlum. 

Expecting him to fall asleep any second, Paul let him to babble away drowsily, occasionally kissing the top of his head and rubbing his back. 

"I buggt ye a hur."

It was uttered too surely for it to be some nonsense and, recognising the word bought, Paul was fully awake, ready to intervene.

"What was that, luv?"

John signed like a toddler not believing his parents didn't get it the first time. Then, slowly as if Paul was deaf and after lobotomy, repeated it.

"I bought you a horse."

"A horse?"

Paul's brows were touching his hairline and threatening to exit the country. John on the other hand was the embodiment of chill.

"Yea, a horse. Four legs, weirdly muscular butt, fancy hair, avethin', the whole package."

John punctuated it by a firm nod after each article, staring at Paul intently. When there was no reaction whatsoever a light blush covered his cheeks.

"I-You always said you wanted a farm in Scotland, right?"

"Right, but I didn't mean-."

"So, I was, like, adopting cats online. When I realised." John's mouth opened in a yawn, Martha repeating the action from her corner. "It occurred to me, you still live in a fucking flat. And, ehm, I, with a huge help of alcohol, decided to accelerate the process of you doing something else than just strumming a guitar. And, there was that juice fantasy of me getting laid by a cowboy. But, like, I thought why not, I love him, 'm right menace all the time, could compensate, like"

With each word John's face hid more and more in Paul's neck, his voice growing softer. When he didn't add anything else, Paul realised he was sound asleep.

Processing everything - A horse? _didhesayhelovedme_? His own horse? Cats again? _didhesaidhelovedme_? - Paul remained seated for another half an hour, drinking the now-cold tea and reading another chapter. Then, as carefully as possible, lifted John and deposited him to their bed.

When he joined him a few minutes later, Paul couldn't help but admire his relaxed face. He always looked so peaceful, no narrowed eyes, sour words or fears. Paul wished he would be able to make John this happy in the real world, too. 

Sliding under the covers after one last kiss, he could feel himself drift to sleep when the body next to him stirred.

"Paul?"

"Mhhm?"

"I think I bought ye a sheep too." 

Spooning the man, he smiled to himself. Time to search for a country house, then.


End file.
